Your Bet?
by mistandstars
Summary: George Weasley has something Hermione Granger wants. But the only way she can get it is by defeating him in a game of strip poker. Fluff, one-shot.


Author's Note: Hi! I've always wanted to write a Hermione-George fanfic and here's my very first! I hope you enjoy it. Do leave me with your thoughts. Tip of the hat to the very awesome J. K. Rowling, who owns everything.

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She was already regretting this very rash, un-Hermione decision. True, she had been two Firewhiskeys down when she'd agreed to it. Even so, Hermione Granger had a great capacity when it came to consuming Firewhiskey and there was no way that those two glasses had prevented her from thinking rationally. Or so she told herself as she gravely shuffled the deck of cards and proceeded to deal a hand.

The redhead lay before her on the ground, his chin resting on his forearms, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he watched her.

"Come now, Hermione, is that fear I sense?"

She scoffed and shook her head, unsure if her voice would betray her.

"We can play a practise round or two if you like," he suggested, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

She placed the remaining cards on the floor, sat up straight and cleared her throat. Then, locking her gaze with his, she said, "No George, I don't think I need a practise round."

"Well, alright then." He picked up his cards and scanned them, his face impassive. She could only hope that her face was as stoic as his. She remembered the pack of Weasley Poker cards she had seen at the shop. It had his picture on the front cover, the exact poker-face that he was now sporting. She chuckled.

"Something funny in your cards, eh?" he asked.

She replied with a noncommittal shrug. They hadn't even begun and he was already beating her with that expressionless face of his. She groaned internally, thinking back to the time when they had shaken hands over the plan. She would never have imagined that at 25, she would be at the flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, playing strip poker with the owner of the said joke shop. What would Mrs. Weasley say if she knew?! Merlin, what would Harry, Ron, Ginny... Just about anyone. But then again, desperate times call for desperate measures. She did want to lay her hands on one of the three signed copies of Hogwarts: A History which contained a personal message from Bathilda Bagshot. How George had gotten hold of it was beyond her and he had refused to reveal his secret even when she had begged. He had, however, offered to stake it in a game of strip poker. And she had somehow agreed. She had told him that she didn't have anything to offer if she lost, other than money. He had turned down the money idea and had said that he would ask her for something when he won. She hadn't missed his usage of the word "when". He had remained tight-lipped about what "something" was, and had just said that if she absolutely couldn't do it, he would let her refuse. Which was strange. But comforting, in some way. She had the option of refusing to pay up even if she lost! Not that she would use it unless absolutely necessary, she told herself. She would only play fair.

She surveyed his outfit. He was wearing a beige sweatshirt, dark jeans, shoes, probably some kind of underwear... she blushed as the thought crossed her mind. She did have quite an edge over him. She happened to be wearing almost twice as many items as he was. She had met him directly after work and she had worn smart formals - a light pink shirt, a black pencil skirt, stockings, black pumps and the fancy trench coat Harry had gifted her last Christmas. Not to mention her undergarments. She thanked morning-Hermione for having picked a black pair, instead of the usual white ones she wore. She rather thought she looked better in black. Not that she was going to have to strip to her underwear. She was surprised that he hadn't asked her to get rid of at least her coat and shoes so that they would be on similar footing.

"Earth to, 'Mione," George's voice pulled her out of her reverie. "What are you betting?"

"Umm..."

"Let me go over the rules again, alright?" He said, not unkindly.

She nodded.

"Right. So, bet one item of clothing per round. The loser loses the item. If you win, you keep it on; four of a kind - opponent picks one item of clothing for you that you can put back on, straight flush - you can pick any one item for yourself to put back on, royal flush - you can put everything back on. The rest of it is just standard poker rules. Got it?"

"Yep, all clear. So, what did you bet?"

"Sweatshirt." His face was deadpan.

Hermione's eyebrows shot into her hairline. Someone was really getting into it. "Footwear," she replied.

She won the first round. George shrugged and with one fluid movement, he had taken off his sweatshirt and dumped it on the sofa she was resting her back against. She saw the muscles in his back and her mouth went dry.

"Can't stop thinking about ending the game with me just in my socks, Granger?" he said with a cheeky grin.

Socks, right. He had those too.

"Better not catch a cold, Weasley," she replied, watching him deal.

Five minutes later, he was laying down his cards before her and smiling. She had already lost her pumps and her coat. She groaned. She got up and sat on the sofa, bending to roll down her stockings. She felt his eyes following her hands as they moved down her feet, pulling the cloth down. When she looked up, he was sipping his drink, his eyes boring into hers over the rim of his glass. She threw the stockings over her coat and returned to her earlier seat on the floor.

He lost his shoes and his socks with an air of nonchalance she had to admit she found quite impressive. In spite of the shedding of clothes, she found that the room felt hotter. Her cheeks flushed every time she looked at him. He was now sitting across her, his feet crossed under him. They both frowned at their cards.

"Jeans," he muttered.

"Shirt," she replied, a hint of confidence in her voice.

He smirked and lay down his cards - a beautiful sequence of 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. "Straight."

A giggle burst out of her before she could stop. She put down hers and announced, "Flush."

He rolled his eyes and stood up. She stopped laughing abruptly. He unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Her breath caught in her throat and she stared at him. He slowly slid his jeans to the floor and stepped out of them, scooping them off the floor and throwing them onto the sofa. He was down to his boxers and she felt the heat on her neck and cheeks. She was sure her face was flushed. He casually sat down.

"Your bet?" His voice sounded gruffer than it did before.

"Uhh... shirt," she said.

He glanced down at his boxers and shrugged. "Let's do this."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"I'm feeling lucky," he winked.

George Weasley had winked at her dozens of times in the past, but for some reason, this wink, in particular, stirred something within her. Her heart thudded against her chest and she wondered how he couldn't hear it. She saw that she didn't have the best hand, but she did have the ace of hearts. Hoping against hope, she lay them down and said, "High card."

"Ouch, Hermione," he said, mock-stabbing himself in the chest. Her heart rate increased. "Pair," he said, laying down a pair of nines.

She rolled her eyes at his theatrics and then her face paled as she realised that she had lost. She hesitated.

"We can call it off, you know," he whispered. She didn't know if she was imagining it, but she felt like the room had grown darker. Perhaps the fire had dimmed down.

Her fingers moved to the top button of her shirt. Slowly, she slipped it free. She saw his lower jaw hang loosely as she unbuttoned her shirt. She held his gaze and mentally appreciated that he wasn't looking at her chest as blatantly as she had when the roles had been reversed a few minutes ago. She dropped her shirt to the floor, wondering if the pressure of her obviously perked tips was strong enough to be visible through her bra. She was glad that she was still a little buzzed from earlier and that he had consumed as much as, if not more than, she had.

She reached up to the hair tie holding her hair up in a bun and pulled it out. Her curls gathered around her shoulders and she pulled some of her hair to the front, grateful for the cover it offered.

She heard him exhale loudly. "I hope this isn't against the rules," she whispered, running her hands through her hair.

"No, it isn't." His voice had lowered an entire octave if that was even possible.

They played another round and she lost. She had bet her skirt on it. She asked him if she could have some of his drink. He handed it to her silently and she drained the glass, bottoms up.

"Hermione, we can stop here if you want..." he suggested.

Her brain told her to nod, to agree to what he had said. But her body seemed to move of its own volition. She unhooked the clasp at her waist and shimmied out of her skirt. Plonking it without a second glance on the sofa, she stood before him, challenging him with her eyes to hold her gaze. His eyes raked over her body and he gulped.

"Your bet?" His voice was low. Her eyes darkened. She lifted her chin and said, "All or nothing?"

He was at a loss for words. She blushed and looked away, grateful that the room was growing even darker. The fire had long burnt out and embers glowed and bathed the room in dim, warm light. She saw him nod.

It was an intense match. Not like she had any spectacular cards. She had a 'no pair', in fact. Couldn't get any worse. But the tension that had built up, the occasional glances that they shared, every little thing was making her heart race. She put her cards down, teeth biting into her lower lip nervously. She looked up at him, expectantly.

"Aw, Granger," he smiled. "Straight flush here. Tough luck."

She gasped. Even in that moment, her brain told her that a straight flush had a probability of less than 0.03%. He'd gotten really, really lucky.

"Hmm, what should I put on, I wonder," he murmured, trying to diffuse the tension in the air, that had suddenly thickened.

"You're actually...?"

"Rules are rules." He shrugged.

Her eyes widened and she stood up. She hesitantly placed her palm on her shoulder, her finger fiddling with her bra strap. He lifted himself off the floor too and moved nearer to where she stood, reaching out to his jeans that lay in the pile of clothes on the sofa. She turned to face him.

They were less than an arm's length apart. She pushed down one bra strap and it hung loosely at her elbow. She licked her lips and placed her other hand on the other strap which was still sitting on her shoulder. She saw him look at her.

His hand reached out to stop her hand.

"Leave it," he said in a rather husky voice that made goosebumps rise along her flesh.

"You won," she stated simply.

"I know, but you don't really have to." As if to prove his point, he dumped the jeans he had been holding back onto the sofa and shrugged.

"Well?" she asked. "What's it gonna be?"

She saw his expression change. He looked like a high school kid asking a girl to prom. Except that they both were playing a very non-high-school, PG21 game and were at present semi-nude, chests heaving, cheeks flushed, clearly feeling the tension crackling in the air around them.

"You can have the book..." Her brows furrowed in confusion. "On one condition." There it was. The catch.

His hand slid down her shoulder to her arm and his fingers encircled her wrist lightly.

"Kiss me," he whispered.

She would later try to tell herself that she had leaned forward just for the sake of the book. That their very passionate snog that had caused her stomach to clench was all in the name of Bathilda Bagshot. That the feel of his fingers tightening in her hair, hers running down his chest and meeting behind his back, his hand moving to unclasp her half-removed bra, his arms hoisting her up and her bending her legs around his waist, their frenzied entry into his bedroom, the way he looked down at her after putting her on his bed, the way he suckled her breasts till she moaned... all of it, undoubtedly, stemmed from the singular purpose of attaining Bathilda Bagshot's signature.


End file.
